In My Wildest Dreams

  Her fingers halted on the button of his trousers. “The gardener’s daughter?”

  He caught her chin between his fingers and held it so firmly she couldn’t look away. “Don’t ever suggest I am such a snob again. To me you’re not the gardener’s daughter or the governess. There isn’t a label or a title large enough to embody your being.” Angry, stern, he spoke in his Mr. Throckmorton voice that demanded she listen and understand. “To me, you are Celeste. You are joy personified.”

  “Oh.” She clenched the waistband of his trousers, warmed by the heat he radiated, warmed by his words.

  “And I was warning you to be careful with your liberties, for while you are all those things, you are also the virgin who I want to gently initiate into the mysteries of physical love.”

  “Ohh.”

  His chest rose and fell like stiff bellows that worked with great difficulty. One hand clenched her shoulder, the other her chin, and both trembled with strain. And his trousers . . . with a lightning-quick touch, she slid her hand down over the front.

  His member was there again, just as it had been earlier in the stairwell, and she couldn’t repress a smile—and a tremor. “That is so flattering,” she said, “and so fearsome.”

  “I’m going to pull the curtains now.” He wheeled away.

  She smiled at his retreating figure. Her quivering awareness battled with her fear of intimacy, of nudity, of unknown moves and painful invasion. But on the balance, it was good to know that, in his turn, Garrick struggled to contain his desire. That desperation made him more human; more like her.

  He pulled the long, heavy, indigo drapes, shutting them into a den bound by velvet and scented with flowers. Going to the sofas, he pulled the cushions off and onto the carpet between the two orange trees. He tossed pillows about with abandon, draped the whole area with wraps and blankets from the trunk, pulled one sofa close. With a grand gesture, he indicated their nest.

  Filled with the courage of recklessness, she stalked toward him. He drew her into his arms. He was so much taller than she was; the top of her head came to his chin, and she could rest her cheek on his chest—and did. For a long moment, he held her cradled against him. Her hand stroked his collarbone. His fingers threaded into her hair, and his breath whispered against her forehead. They were two people, brought together by long acquaintance, by unexpected circumstance, by love, and before they took the final, irrevocable, ardent step, they shared the warmth of belonging.

  Unhurriedly, she straightened. “I didn’t get to finish undressing you.”

  “But I want to undress you.”

  She shook her head. “This time, it’s my turn.”

  He cupped her cheeks in his hands and looked into her eyes. “You are going to make me pay for what I did here yesterday, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. I want my revenge.”

  Stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, he stared into her face as if absorbing the sight. “Very well.” Stepping back, he flung his arms wide. “Do your worst.”

  Exultation and fright fought for supremacy within her; how could she feel like this and not burst from the joy, or make a fool of herself? But better a fool who embraced one perfect moment than one who longed eternally and never dared take what she wanted.

  Sliding her hands beneath his jacket, she slipped it off his shoulders and allowed it to drop onto the marble floor. His shirt was easy; she tugged it loose from his trousers and pulled it over his head.

  His bare chest startled in its perfection. Clothed, Garrick gave the appearance of bulk and strength, but exposed to the light, he proved to be a mass of large, smooth muscles beneath olive skin, and dark, curling hair that stretched from shoulder to shoulder and down his flat stomach. She’d never seen anything so alive, and she touched him in curious amazement, stroking her hands first down his arms, then down his sides. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

  “Men aren’t beautiful.”

  “You are.” She circled him, dragging a finger around his abdomen and around to his back.

  His back showed the same sturdy build. “You’re not constructed like an aristocrat,” she said. “More like a farmer or a laborer.”

  “My father was a laborer.” Garrick paused while she ran her hands up the indent of his spine. “He thought a man should know how to lift and toil, and I spent some time working on the docks. And in India—” He froze when she pressed herself against his back and tried to span his neck with her fingers. When she stepped back, he said in a conversational tone, “Your breasts scorched my flesh where they touched.”

  She chuckled and stroked the long muscles that extended from his shoulders to his spine. “I see no signs of burn.”

  He turned on her and seized her wrists. “Celeste . . .”

  Giving him her sauciest smile, she reminded him, “You were telling me about how you labored in India.”

  For a moment, he looked bewildered as if he didn’t know what she was talking about.

  She freed her hands, then lightly slid them up his arms. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered in his ear, “You were telling me how you developed such a marvelous brawniness, and I really, really want to hear.”

  In a gritty voice, he said, “I will make you pay for this.”

  “I’m depending on it.” Her discovery of love for him hadn’t blinded her to the advantages of being initiated by Garrick. He was a perfectionist, the exact man to instruct her. He would insist on nothing less than pleasure for them both. For her. It was that confidence that gave her the audacity to tease him when his hands bunched into fists and he lusted after her with his gaze.

  “India,” she urged.

  “I spent a few months in a nomad’s camp, herding yaks.”

  “What’s a yak?”

  “It’s a furry beast of burden that gives milk.”

  “Why would a businessman herd—”

  “Because I was traveling with the nomads!” He sounded exasperated.

  She leaned her head against his shoulder and hid a smile. “What else?”

  “I spent more than a few months a captive in Kabul, sweating blood in the rajah’s quarry.”

  “You’ve had adventures.”

  “At the time, they felt like punishments.”

  “You’ll tell me sometime?”

  “Not now.”

  “Not now,” she agreed. Searching through his chest hair, she found his male nipples and circled them with her fingertips. “Different, yet the same. When I touch you, does it feel the same?”

  “As when I touch you?” At her nod, he lifted one shoulder. “I can’t say, but I like it. I like it very much.”

  She pinched gently, as he had, and when he groaned she said, “Yes. I think it feels much the same for both of us.” Satisfied she had achieved a small measure of revenge—and knowledge—she once more slid her palm over the bulge in his trousers. It hadn’t diminished; if anything, it had grown.

  She swallowed and fumbled a little as she unbuttoned him.

  He took her shoulders as she did, whether to support her or himself, she didn’t know. “I promise you—” he began.

  She interrupted. “I know.” Untying the string of his drawers, she slid her hands along the side of his hips and down his thighs, following his clothing toward the floor. Kneeling, she was saying, “We just need to get you out of these trousers . . .” when she noticed . . .

  All right, she’d known his penis was there. Curiosity had suggested this method for a closer look. But it was so close and so . . . well . . . big. Gorgeous, but big. Especially at eye level. Especially . . . leaning back, she viewed his whole figure.

  The hair on his chest extended over his furrowed abdomen to join the quantity of dark hair at the junction of his legs. His hips weren’t slim, made for slipping between a woman’s legs, but solid, heavy-boned, with a strength that would weight on a woman and imprint her with his claim. And likewise his member, a sweep of smooth, olive skin, dark veins and subtle graduations, would dominate a woman.
“Dear heavens.” In amazement, she glanced up at his face.

  He stared down at her, his gray eyes intense, his lids heavy. “Well, Celeste? What do you think?”

  “I think I want to touch you.”

  His member twitched.

  She scarcely heard him say, “You haven’t asked permission before.”

  Extending one finger, she touched him. Just the tip.

  His breath hissed out.

  Glancing up, she saw the way he watched her—as if she were the torturer stretching him on the rack. But she couldn’t be hurting him, so this must be like what he’d done to her, a pleasure so great as to be pain.

  Gently, she wrapped her hand around the shaft.

  Odd, to think that pleasure could be almost unbearable. Odd, also, to find that arousing him could arouse her, but it did. As she held him cupped in her palm, as she rubbed her fingers over the cap, the ridges, as she found the strength of the base and heard the faint, deep groans her exploration invoked: she discovered her cheeks flushed, her breasts ached with need, and a damp warmth grew between her legs.

  She wanted.

  Grasping his thighs, she rubbed her cheek against the rough hair and marveled. Sturdy, solid, like every part of Garrick. Each large muscle delineated, masculine, evocative of the strength of the man.

  His breath rasped above her. He touched her hair, a light caress.

  Because it seemed right, because it seemed daring, she leaned forward and kissed his member, and ran her tongue up its length.

  Suddenly he waited no longer. Pulling her to her feet, he unbuttoned her in a fury of movement.

  “Garrick?” Her voice squeaked a little.

  He didn’t seem even to have heard her. He concentrated on disrobing her to the exclusion of all else, concentrated so hard her heart began the slow, deep thump of terror and exhilaration.

  “Garrick.” She half-laughed as he pushed her hands away from him so he could remove her gown. “What’s the hurry?”

  He didn’t answer, didn’t slow as he stripped the dress away, turned her around, untied her petticoats. They dropped to the floor, rustling as they landed in the starched heap. Wrapping his arms around her, he picked her up and out of her clothing, kicking everything aside in his quest to reach the cushions on the floor.

  As their bodies met, they both froze.

  He wore nothing but a pair of boots.

  She wore nothing but a thin, white, lacy chemise and silk stockings.

  There might have been nothing between their heated bodies. Her puckered nipples pressed into his chest. His penis prodded her belly.

  He stared at her, face to face. “Corset?” he asked.

  “None.”

  His eyes dilated until the pupil swallowed the gray iris. “Pantalettes?”

  She shook her head. “I was coming to you.”

  The world dropped away as he fell backward, landing on the cushions so she could land on him. She didn’t even catch her breath before he rolled until he was above her. She cried out, not from fear exactly, but from surprise and bewilderment as he pulled her chemise out from under her and up to her waist. Opening her legs with the thrust of his knee, he placed himself between them, his hips pressing her hips, his chest against hers. The onslaught, the rush, his seizing of domination brought a tardy brush of prudence.

  She tried to push against him.

  He paused to catch her hands and wrap them around his shoulders. “Hold on.” Sliding his hand beneath her neck, he lifted her face for a brief kiss. “Just hold on.”

  His hand disappeared. He touched her . . . below. A brief touch at first, nothing more than a brush of fingers. Reconnaissance, it would seem, for next he moved to open her to his touch.

  She squeezed his shoulders, his arms. Caution clogged her throat and brought heat to her skin. Caution was natural the first time a woman—any woman—was with a man—any man. And the first time altogether . . .

  How could a man in such a blazing hurry handle her with such delicacy? His thumb grazed her lightly, but with such precision she cried out again. But this time there was nothing of protest, and everything of delight. Her legs . . . she didn’t know what to do with her legs. Her feet moved restlessly on the floor . . . she and Garrick had fallen only partially on the cushions . . .

  He found the entrance to her body, circled it lightly with his finger, then entered. Not much, just far enough to make her bear down with her feet and lift her hips.

  “That’s it.” He pulled away.

  “Don’t go.” Now she clutched at him.

  “It’s far too late for that.” He shifted position, put his hands beneath her hips, lifted her and touched her again.

  She smiled. “Better.”

  Then the pressure grew. His weight bore down on her.

  Oh, God. He was on her. He was in her.

  It burned. She struggled. He paused, but didn’t retreat. Shiny, black and straight, his hair fell about his forehead. His cheeks were concave with strain. One drop of sweat trickled down his temple, and his chest rose and fell with harsh breaths.

  How dared he look as if he were suffering? She wanted to smack him. “You promised me enchantment,” she said, indignation smoldering in her tone.

  “Soon.” He smiled at her, a slash of villainy.

  “You lied.” He had. He knew he had, too.

  “I just . . . didn’t tell you . . . all the truth.” Lifting her hips, he adjusted their bodies, sliding a little away, giving her ease.

  But before she could sigh with relief, he drove forward and the pressure started again.

  He had the audacity to say, “Patience.”

  Worse this time. The stinging was worse, with an inner resistance that brought tears to her eyes.

  Grabbing his hair, she tugged.

  Intent on his task, he paid no attention.

  So she distracted him, pulling him to her for a kiss, nipping his lip as he had done to her, thrusting her tongue in his mouth. Angling his head, he kissed her back, fighting her for command.

  Deep within her, her maidenhead yielded, but she did not. The kiss deepened, flared into fire, damped down and flared again.

  And all the time he forged on.

  She didn’t know when he started thrusting in and out, she only knew when she drew back from the kiss and gasped for air, the pain had faded to discomfort. Everything about this was alien, yet . . . her body knew how to respond. He made it easy; he moved unhurriedly, sliding in all the way, pressing his pelvis to hers, putting himself right where she felt him the most. Then he moved back, a deliberate sweep that compelled her to acknowledge every inch of him. Back he came in purposeful cadence, deep inside her, then back. In and out . . . in and out . . .

  She found herself waiting on his advance, taking pleasure in his advance yet desperate for that moment when he was all the way inside, his member touching her womb, his body against hers, as close to her as he could be. Then when he pulled away, the pleasure changed, became impatience rendered bearable by the promise of more to come.

  She watched him, memorizing his determination, his vehemence. He was hot, like a stove, and as he thrust his heat entered her, stretching her. Her legs shifted around him, lifting to clutch his hips, her feet sliding on the back of his thighs. Her hands grasped at him, roaming his neck, his shoulders, his arms. Her hips rocked and her back arched.

  And all the while he kept up that slow, measured, calculated rhythm, each thrust a little more intense, each moment bringing her a little closer to climax. In and out . . .

  He was relentless. When the pleasure got too powerful, she began to shy away. The blood throbbed in her veins. She found it an effort to keep her eyes open, and each time they fluttered closed she could hear her body that much more clearly. She panted, and someone—oh, it was she!—moaned with the advance of sharp, desperate desire. She wanted to move more quickly, to finish this her own way, but he controlled her; his hands beneath her buttocks rocked her toward him. He forced her to maintain his pace
, his fingers clasping and releasing in a pulse that echoed the one inside.

  He adjusted his weight, leaning his chest against hers, forcing her down further into the cushion. Close against her ear, he spoke in that slow, inexorable, dark velvet voice. “Celeste. Let me see you. Let me hear you. Show me your joy.”

  She didn’t know where she found the strength to defy him, or even why, but she did. “No.” She could scarcely whisper.

  Deep inside, the pressure grew, yet she fought to hold together, to keep from letting Garrick see her, exposed and desperate and wanting.

  “This is pure pleasure.” He thrust a little more slowly. “Can you feel how much I love being inside you?”

  “Yes.” She tossed her head back and forth on the pillows.

  “How each inch glides in?”

  Her back arched as, in her mind’s eye, she saw their joining. “Yes.”

  “You’re dark and warm inside. So tight.” He drew the words out, making each one a counterpoint to the advance on her body and on her emotions, making her more aware of the motion, the heat, the pure sexuality of their union.

  She whimpered.

  “Hold me deep inside you.” He caressed her with his language. He overwhelmed her with his body. “Hold me.”

  She tried. She tightened her muscles on him—and climax struck her like a tidal wave, roaring along her nerves, lifting her hard against him. She convulsed, drowning in pleasure, mindless with the agony and the rapture. She cried out. She hung onto Garrick with her nails and her love. She forgot him in her ecstasy and memorized him in her heart.

  And when she was done, when the wave rolled and she was left panting and exhausted, she opened her eyes to see him, watching her, holding her . . . moving on her.

  “I love watching you,” he whispered. “Show me again.”

  23

  Most men would not feel so grim when they woke in the morning to find a beautiful, nude woman kissing their way down their chests. Most men would not be suffering from guilt after having spent a night of bliss in Celeste’s arms. Most men would count themselves lucky to find themselves in such a fix.